


call it your day number one in the rest of forever

by samyazaz



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Based On a D&D Game, Don’t copy to another site, Emotions, F/F, F/M, Humor, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 20:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: Quil hums an acknowledgment as her steward speaks, but keeps her head bent, her pen scratching across the page as she takes notes about who will be visiting from where when and which of her nobles have requested an audience and with how much urgency. She only hesitates when he says, "And the prince and princess consort have requested a private supper with you tonight, if you haven't any previous obligations."





	call it your day number one in the rest of forever

Quil hums an acknowledgment as her steward speaks, but keeps her head bent, her pen scratching across the page as she takes notes about who will be visiting from where when and which of her nobles have requested an audience and with how much urgency. She only hesitates when he says, "And the prince and princess consort have requested a private supper with you tonight, if you haven't any previous obligations."

Quil lifts her head to stare at the man blankly, her heart kicking into a stuttering rhythm as she tries to recall which of their various neighboring royals he might mean. She tries to keep her voice even and light, to not give away her panic, when she says, "I beg your pardon. The prince and princess consort of where?"

The baffled look he gives her in answer does nothing to calm her certainty that she's somehow misspoken. When his expression shifts abruptly to wide-eyed consternation and alarm, she thinks she was right after all, but her ignorance must be because someone else forgot to inform her.

_They've probably been wandering about the palace all day_, she thinks, equal parts bemused and horrified, _wondering why I haven't come to welcome them. No wonder they asked for my undivided attention over supper._

"Beg pardon, your Majesty," the steward stammers. "They did ask we not use those titles, of course. It's my mistake. I won't repeat it, you have my word."

Quil blinks at him, at sea. "I'm sure they will much appreciate that," she assures him. "But I wasn't aware we had dignitaries visiting. I haven't been briefed." She sits back and pulls her hands through her hair, then immediately regrets it. If they've been waiting all day for an official welcome, then there isn't time to waste in having to repair the mess she's just made of it. She pulls it down out of its twisted, pinned braids, unplaits it and sweeps Prestidigitation over herself to tidy it. It's a less formal style than visiting dignitaries ought to warrant, but at least it's presentable, and quicker than any alternatives. "I wouldn't want to insult them by using titles they've requested we not. How do they wish to be addressed?"

The steward's mouth gapes open and shut at her. He stares at her for long enough, is speechless for long enough, that she'd almost wonder if her magic hadn't lashed out in some preposterous way like it so often used to. It would be just her luck to have to greet her neglected visitors with her skin gone blue as the sky, or feathers for hair. "I-- Beg pardon, your Majesty," he says, and he sounds as lost as she feels. "It was my understanding that they'd granted you leave to use their given names. Haven't they?" he asks, like he's begging for clarity.

Quil understands the impulse. She shakes her head, entirely mystified. "I must beg your indulgence. Too many nights burning the candle at both ends must have addled my wits. Please, could you just tell me plain, who are we speaking of?"

"I--" All at once, he tucks his hands behind his back and gives her a swift, precisely formal bow. "Your Majesty. Master and Mistress Windrose, of course, your Majesty."

Quil sits back in her chair abruptly, staring openly at him. "Why-- What--" She presses a hand to her brow and shakes her head. "Who-- _Who_ told you that you shouldn't call them...that?" _Who on earth had the thought that it might be something people would call them in the first place?_

He looks baffled by the question. "I suppose it must've been Essie, from the kitchens. She said one of the scullery maids told her, and I'm given to understand that she was told by Stefan, in the stables, and that he was corrected by Mistress Windrose herself. Of course, none of us wish to give insult, so as soon as we learned that they didn't care to be addressed by the titles, we told one another, so no one else would make the mistake unknowing." He hesitates, then continues, reluctant and cringing a little, like he fears the ground he's treading upon, "I beg your pardon, your Majesty. But if you disagree with their rejection of the titles, you should work it out between yourselves first, if you don't mind my saying so. None of us would wish to upset one of you by heeding one of the other's wishes."

He says _Stefan, in the stables_, and Quil has a moment to think, _Ah, of course, that explains it, children are wont to misunderstand things, to assume_, before the rest of his words catch up to her and she's at sea once more, because if Stefan had misunderstood the nature of her relationship with Phi and Terry, surely the steward wouldn't have said they _rejected_ the titles, surely he would have said that Phi told Stefan that it wasn't her title in the first place, not that she didn't wish to be addressed by it. But surely-- surely--

His expression is growing more alarmed by the moment, the longer her bewildered silence stretches on. She shakes her head swiftly, says, "No, of course not. Please, forgive my confusion, it has been a very long day. Of course you should address them as they've asked of you. And please--" Her voice wobbles as her nerve threatens to break, but only for a moment before she shores her reserves and forces herself through it. "Please tell them that of course I'd be delighted to have supper with them privately tonight. They only ever need to ask." Though they know that, of course. She wonders if maybe that's why they directed the request through her steward in the first place, because they knew he'd say so if she had a prior engagement, where she would not have, would have simply rescheduled any meetings or meals or obligations that might have conflicted with getting to sit and enjoy a few hours and a meal with them, with just them.

"Very good, your Majesty," the steward says, looking immensely relieved, and bows and leaves, no doubt before she can say something else that throws him into another tizzy of confusion.

Quil only wishes her own could be avoided so easily, or resolved so readily.

*

She finds Lanra down on the training fields, where she'd had half a mind she might find Terry and be able to speak with him before the supper hour. One of the guards there, practicing with a polearm, sees her and straightens from his defensive stance to give her a smart bow, quickly followed by the others on the training field, and Lanra turns with one brow raised. His expression breaks into a broad smile when he sees her, standing a few paces away. He pushes off from the fencepost he's been leaning on, watching the sparring, and comes to her. "Finally managed to pull yourself away from your ledgers for an afternoon, have you? I daresay you could use the break. Shall I go have Kal strap on some armor, and the two of us can give you a real show, hmm?"

She smiles at him gently, rises up onto the tips of her hooves to press a hand to one cheek and a kiss to the other. "I've had enough of a show from you both for a lifetime, I think. I'd rather see you both at your ease."

"Where's the fun in that?" Lanra scoffs, grinning. But his gaze seeks hers out, and when he finds it, there's a quiet, searching question there behind the mirth. "Is everything all right?"

She blows out a heavy breath and eyes the guards on the field, most of them still watching her, if only sidelong; nearly all of them close enough to potentially overhear the conversation, particularly if the afternoon's breeze were to blow in the right direction. "Will you come with me?"

His brows climb, but he nods easily enough. "Of course. Where are we going? Or is it a secret?"

She laughs quietly and shakes her head, and leads him back into the palace, to the sitting room of her chambers, where they can at least be guaranteed privacy. When she sits in her armchair and folds her legs up beneath herself, Lanra takes the settee opposite her and lowers himself onto it, watching her with the first signs of concern.

"What is it, Quil? What's happened?"

She gives a short, sharp laugh and shakes her head again. "It's nothing! It's nothing to look so worried over, certainly. It's only, I was speaking with my steward, and he said something..."

Lanra, all at once, looks thunderous. "Did he say something untoward? I swear by all the gods--"

"Lanra!" She lifts her hands to forestall him, and does laugh then, and means it. "Please don't. I've given him enough of a headache myself, I warrant, and I'd hate to put him off us entirely and have to find a replacement. He's been nothing but proper, of course, only he was speaking of Phi and Terry, and he... He called them the princess and prince consort, and I--" Lanra's face has very abruptly gone entirely still. Quil eyes him, and bites at her lip before the words tumble from her in a rush. "Lanra, am I _married?_"

Whatever he'd been bracing himself for, she doesn't think it was that. His face transforms with astonishment in the instant before he throws himself back in his seat and laughs loudly into his hands. "Quil," he says, slightly strangled, his shoulders shaking. "If you're asking that question, I think you're asking it of the wrong person."

She wrenches her hands apart from where she's been twisting them together, drops them into her lap and frowns at him. "You wouldn't say that if you didn't know the answer."

"Quil," he says again, like he's trying not to laugh. She's not sure whether to resent the humor that he's finding in the situation, or appreciate his attempt at restraint. "If you're asking if you're married to _me_, I'll be more than glad to answer you. But that's not what you mean, and I'm not the one you should be asking it of." He rises, steps over to her to ruffle her hair. "Do you want me to go see if I can find Terry and send him up to you, so he can set your mind at ease, one way or another?"

She sighs heavily and flops back in her chair, frowning. "No," she says mulishly. "I'm having supper with them. I can wait."

He kisses her brow and tucks a strand of hair back behind her horn. "If you're sure. You know neither of them would protest an extra hour or two of your time."

"I know," she says, and means it. She does know, of course she does.

He stands there for a moment, looking down at her. "They both love you, you know. Whatever the answer is, they love you so much they're stupid with it."

"Hey," Quil says, laughing despite herself. "Careful. That might be your prince and princess consort you're talking about."

"Nah," Lanra says with an easy grin. Behind the humor, he looks relieved. "It's my sister and my best friend, and I can say what I like about them, particularly if it's true. I've never seen Terry half so stupid over anyone as he was over you, excepting only when he first met Phi."

"He wasn't," Quil protests, but she can feel her cheeks heating with a flush, and she can't repress the grin stretching across her face. "He wasn't any such thing."

"I assure you, he was. He was stupid enough over you that even Phi knew he was, with half the country between them. You should have heard him sigh over you, Quil. If you hadn't slept quite so soundly, you would have."

She presses her hands to her cheeks to cool her blush, and grins helplessly at him through her fingers. "What about Phi? Was she--" She can't call her _stupid_, she can't. "Was she like that, too?"

"Not like that," he says, still laughing. "In her own way. But _one_ of you lot had to be the sensible one, after all."

_"Lanra!"_ she protests, surrendering to the giggles, and pulls one of the decorative pillows out from behind her to throw at him. He ducks it easily, and when he straightens, his eyes are glinting, warm and bright.

He tosses the pillow onto the settee, then takes her wrists in his hands, draws hers down off her face so that he can kiss her brow again. "They love you," he says once more, and though his face is bright with good humor, his words carry weight behind them. "That's what matters, isn't it?"

"I'm not worried about _that_," she says, and sighs again. "I'm worried... that I really am as stupid as you say I am."

"You're very clever, Quil," he says, and turns for the chamber door. "Cleverer than you've ever given yourself credit for." He stops halfway through the doorway, one hand on the jamb, and tilts his head at her. "Sure you don't want me to send one or both of them up?"

She shakes her head. "Thank you, Lanra."

He flashes her one final grin before he disappears.

*

She occupies herself with a walk around the palace grounds and through the courtyards, and ends at the secluded bench by her beehives, letting their soft hum and the tickle of their feet as they crawl across her skin soothe her, until its near enough to the supper hour that she can claim the excuse to go back inside and ready herself for the meal.

She braids her hair back up, because she has the time and needs the distraction to keep her from counting the minutes, and then she's still left with entirely too long to wait. It's a terrible relief when the knock comes at her chamber door, earlier than most would dare to arrive to a private supper in the queen's quarters.

She jumps to her feet, then holds herself back a moment, nerves rioting in her stomach. But the thought of leaving them waiting, of making them knock a second time or maybe even doubt their welcome, is intolerable, so in the next moment she rushes forward and draws the heavy door open.

Phi and Terry are standing on the other side, Phi's face turned to his, her eyes dancing with mirth at something he's said, and all at once Quil's heart squeezes so tight with love and gladness that she can scarcely breathe.

They both turn forward as the door opens, and their smiles warm to see her. She grips the jamb in one hand and says, "You don't have to _knock_. They're your rooms as much as mine." Technically, _officially_, they have their own set of chambers just beside hers, with an adjoining door between them, but that door is almost never closed, and the nights when they don't all end up pressed together in one bed or the other are so rare as to be practically nonexistent.

Terry's brow quirks, his lips twitching with amusement. "When we've received an official invitation from the palace steward himself, I think maybe we do."

Quil rolls her eyes and steps back to let them through. "You're the ones who asked him instead of me."

"You wouldn't have said no," Phi says, and steps just far enough through that there's space for Terry to follow behind her, then reels Quil in for a kiss.

When they part, Quil's cheeks have gone flushed and warm. "What is the point of being queen," she asks, "if you can't spend time with the people you love?"

It makes both of their faces soften, makes both their gazes go bright and warm, the same as it always does when she says she loves them, as though it still takes them by surprise.

It's even more absurd now, knowing what she thinks she does, what the whole palace apparently assumes.

Terry takes Phi's place, and kisses her in turn. When he straightens, though, he's frowning just a little. "_Are_ we keeping you from something important? We could've waited. We could've had breakfast together, instead."

Quil shakes her head. She catches each of them and draws them to the table that's been set, though it's too early for food to have been brought up yet. "You're what's important."

They sit, across the table from each other so that no matter which of the remaining to seats she chooses, she'll be between them. She takes the nearest seat, and smiles at them both, and then finds herself uncertain how to begin, how to ask what she needs to.

"Quil," Phi says softly, and Quil jerks her gaze up but finds that Phi isn't waiting to catch it, that she instead has her attention cast down, a little uncertain frown pinched between her brows as she watches the end of Quil's tail flick anxiously back and forth beneath her chair. "What's wrong?"

Quil wraps her traitorous tail around the leg of the chair, forcing it still. "Nothing's wrong."

Phi looks unconvinced, and now Terry looks concerned. He glances between the two of them until he comes to rest, in the end, on Quil. "You _can_ tell us no, you know, if you need to. We're not going anywhere, and there are other meals we can have together, if you've somewhere you need to be. You won't insult us."

Quil squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head hard. "Please don't go," she manages. If they go, and don't even give her answers before they leave, she'll only be eaten up by the questions in their absence. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you asked."

Terry relaxes fractionally into his seat. "Okay," he says, and smiles. When he lays his hand on the table between them, turned palm up, Quil slips hers into it gladly. He gives it a little squeeze, and some of the tension eases out of her shoulders. "But will you tell us what's troubling you?"

She blows out her breath and laughs a little, helplessly. "It's not _troubling_ me," she says, and immediately realizes it's a lie. "It's not a _bad_ thing, it's..." She squeezes her eyes shut and clings to Terry's hand like a lifeline. It feels like one, tethering her, grounding her, when she feels like she might fly off into a hundred different directions all at once. "I was speaking with my steward, and..." She opens her eyes, then, because she has to, because she has to know. Desperately, she asks, "Why does my steward think we're married?"

Terry's face washes with shock. Quil casts a glance at Phi and finds her much the same, her jaw half-gaped, her eyes round.

"Quil," Terry says, choked, and she turns back to him to find him rubbing a hand across his mouth, as though in disbelief. "_Quil_. Why do you think you're _not?_"

It's confirmation, as much as anything else might be, and she wrests her hand from Terry's so that she can bury her face in her arms with a groan. "Why would I think that? We never-- We _never_\--"

A hand pets over her hair, stroking. She's not sure who it belongs to, but it doesn't matter. "We gave you a bracelet," Phi says gently.

Quil lifts her head just enough to stare at her across her folded arms. "I thought it was a kind gift. Not _every_ gifted bracelet means marriage, does it?"

"You've worn it every day since," Terry says, and he brushes a hand across her wrist, where it sits even now, a setting of gold with bees of ebony and topaz, tucked amongst flowers rendered in ruby and lapis.

"It's lovely," she says unsteadily. "It's so lovely. It's perfect. Of course I wear it. I love it."

Terry's whole face brightens with the softest, loveliest smile. His eyes seem to glow with it. "Don't you remember what we said when we gave it to you? When you accepted it?"

"Of course I do. You were so--" She presses a hand over her eyes. They said such wonderful, wonderful things. It had made her chest ache with it, then. It makes her chest ache now. "You were telling me you loved me. That's not a _proposal_."

"We were making promises," Phi says softly, warm with so much affection. "We were talking about the future."

_Promises_, she says, and she means _vows_, and Quil feels like such a fool.

Phi lays a touch on her wrist, gently guiding her hands down from her face. She looks so full of joy and warmth and welcome. She looks like she did on the day they gave her the bracelet, and Quil wants to cry for how foolish she was not to realize what it meant, when it's written so plain on their faces. "You wept," she says, and brushes her thumb across Quil's cheek. It comes away glistening with a tear.

"I always want to cry," she whispers, "when I think about how much you love me."

Phi's brows knit, not exactly a frown, but a thread of solemnity that dims, just a little, the bright light of her affection. She presses the hand on Quil's cheek just a little firmer, leans across the corner of the table and presses a kiss to her mouth, too.

"You made promises in return," Terry says. "We thought you knew. Of course we thought you knew."

Quil ducks her head, breaking from the kiss enough to speak, but Phi stays warm and close, kisses her cheek instead, kisses her brow. "I meant them. I just didn't know..." Her breath hiccups. "I didn't know."

"Darling." Phi slips her fingers beneath Quil's chin, lifting her head. "We made a hash of this, didn't we? I'm sorry. You deserved to have this done properly."

"No." Quil shakes her head violently, until Phi presses her fingers to the edge of her jaw and stills her. "No, you're both wonderful. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Nevertheless." Terry takes her hand, slides his fingers along the bracelet and comes away with it unclasped. Her heart lurches a little bit to see her wrist bare of it, to feel just for a moment like maybe he's taking it back because she didn't appreciate what it meant when they gave it, even though she knows that's silly, that they would never. "We're going to do this right. Call us selfish," he says, his eyes smiling up at her as he closes his hand around the bracelet. "You were so happy that day, you practically shone with it. I want to see how much brighter you glow when you know what we're asking."

Quil covers her face with her hands, overcome, but peeks out over the tops of them, unable to deny either of them anything they might want of her.

"Quil," he says, and he's grinning, he's grinning so bright, like he already knows her answer. Of course he does. How could he not? He opens his hand between them, her bracelet lying there on his palm, glittering and lovely and perfect, just as perfect as the day they first gave it to her. "I love you. _We_ love you. You said we were one of the best things that's ever happened to you, but you must know the reverse is true as well. You bring us so much joy." He lifts the hand that's not holding her bracelet out on offer between them, lifts it to curve against her jaw, fingers laying gentle and warm against the skin just behind her ear. "So much love. Will you do us the very great honor of marrying us?"

Quil is crying, she can't help it, tears spilling down her cheeks and cascading across her hands. "I already have," she whispers, and she's beaming behind her hands, beaming so hard that Terry must be able to sense it, because his face reflects it, brightens with it, shining with so much light that looking at him is like looking at the sun. It's too much for mortal eyes to witness. It hurts. It's so beautiful.

Phi lays her hand over Terry's and she's burning just as fiercely. It shouldn't be possible for her to have one of them looking at her like this, with so much love and so much welcome. To have the both of them must be some mistake of the universe. It can't be meant for her to be so lucky. For her to be so happy. How is her poor heart supposed to contain it?

"Will you do it again?" Phi asks her. "Will you marry us again, knowing now that you are, knowing all that it entails?"

Quil drops her hands from her mouth, to be sure they hear her clearly, to be sure they're sure of her answer. "A hundred times," she says, and when Terry whoops with joy and scoops her into his embrace, she's already reaching an arm to loop around his neck, is already stretching the other out toward Phi when she slides in and wraps her arms around them both, clasping them to her. "A thousand times," she says between kisses, between giddy, bubbling laughter. "Yes, of course I will."

For long minutes, they're lost in a tangled embrace, trading kisses between one another. When they separate, it's only Phi putting the slimmest of spaces between them, just enough to reach to Terry and take the bracelet he's still clutching in his hand, to unlatch it and take Quil's hand in hers and close it about her wrist with great care and solemnity.

Quil beams at her, then draws her in for a kiss with a hand pressed to her cheek, pressed so that Phi feels the bracelet there around her wrist. Quil can feel the way it makes Phi tremble, just a little, and makes her lean more deeply into the kiss, and Quil holds onto her, holds onto them both, and thinks that she could drown herself in their kisses, in their joy, in their love. Not even a lifetime, she thinks, is going to be enough to get used to it.


End file.
